


What Night Spoke

by PasdeChameau



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angsty fluff that nosedives into straight-up angst, Canon Compliant, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Intrusive Thoughts, Jealousy, M/M, Pillow Talk, Repression and understated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PasdeChameau/pseuds/PasdeChameau
Summary: Fill for the kink meme prompt: "I want to see Crozier telling James about his plan to promote Jopson. After Morfin dies they need something good to plan, and clearly James isn't surprised by the promotion the next day. Maybe James has been a tiny bit envious of Crozier's fondness for Jopson and Crozier reassures him. Just some cuddling and huddling for warmth and openness that sharing a sleeping space brings between our two favorite captains."





	What Night Spoke

James is tugging off his boots when he hears Francis’s clipped steps scuffing the stones outside the tent. Then comes the pause—the moment’s hesitation that Francis never seems able to shed, his bashfulness so perfectly timed James could set his watch by it, if only he still had a watch to set. _Three, two, one,_ and then Francis’s voice: “Captain Fitzjames?”

“Come,” James calls, as he works his ankle between his hands, the joint throbbing after the day’s march. His eyes slip shut of their own accord, but he smiles faintly to hear Francis rustling with the tent flap—tying it shut, he thinks. Hopes.

Silence falls then, forcing James to look up: Francis has not budged from his position near the entry, where he is watching James cautiously. It’s only now, with James’s gaze frankly on him, that he seems to lay hold of his voice. “Are you hurt?”

No need for James to call the wounds in his side and back guiltily to mind—the pain tugs constantly at his awareness. “Stiff and sore—that’s all.” He extends his hand. 

But Francis slips his grip, placing his palms on James’s shoulders instead and leaning low to speak, his breath caressing the shell of his ear as he does so. James shivers. “I’ve a proposition to discuss with you.”

“Going to make an honest man of me?” 

His humor has grown rote. Lifeless. Still, Francis laughs, and James feels his blood quicken at the sound, urged onward. “A proposition, I said—not a miracle.” 

James makes to swat at him, but finds his fingers tangling in Francis’s collar. He pulls him closer. “An apology, I think, is in order. Kiss me or I shan’t hear you out.”

Francis shakes his head. “You’re chilled—I’d all but stick to you, if I touched you skin to skin now. Come to bed and we’ll talk.”

“What cheek—inviting me into my own cot,” James scoffs, but strips slowly to his shirt and linens and eases himself beneath the covers, where Francis already lies waiting for him. He turns to James at once, running his hand along his arm and flank, trailing warmth in his wake. 

“That reminds me,” James continues, “I hope your complaints of wakefulness haven’t been exaggerated. You’ll forgive the selfishness of the thought: I’ve seen she-wolves less protective of their charges than Jopson is of you. He’ll certainly come looking for you if you’re not tucked safe inside your own bunk at four bells. Will you wake before then, do you think? It wouldn’t do for him to see us…as we are now.”

“My dear James,” Francis says, dryly fond, “I’d be tossing and turning at one even if the stars themselves reversed their course. I’ll be gone while you’ve still papers in your hair.”

James chuckles, despite himself. “Awful man.” He laughs again, but the sound breaks apart in his throat, the coldness of the air slashing at his lungs, and he hastens to speak before Francis can. “What was it you wished to discuss?”

“As it happens—Jopson.”

Francis is smiling once more, bafflingly secretive. “Jopson? Surely you’re not displeased with him.”

Francis smooths a lock of hair away from James’s face, touch gentle even as the roughened pads of his fingers snag amongst the brittle waves. “No, not at all. In fact—what would you say if I were to promote him lieutenant?”

“I would say that it’s well earned,” James says slowly. Slowly, carefully, uneasily, for stray images now rattle through his mind—Jopson’s guiding hand at Francis’s back during Carnivale, the look of peaceful concentration on the steward’s face as he tacked down a button on Francis’s waistcoat, the evening when Francis had yelled for _Thomas_ (and, of course, more whiskey). With some effort, James tamps the memories down. They are unworthy—of him, possibly, and of Francis, certainly.

Francis’s voice calls him back to himself. “Is that all?”

James rolls a loose thread from Francis’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger. “And that we’re short an officer, certainly.”

“You’re quiet tonight—damn near taciturn. I’d hoped it might lift spirits as well. Do you think it will?”

“Well—yes, on the whole, I should say so.” Francis is now studying him as intently as the twilight allows. James glances away; the gaze seems close enough to scrape his skin raw. “There are always malcontents, of course, but—” He trails off, the half-truth a balm, of sorts, to his conscience.

“But—” Francis prompts.

“Nothing. You’re right, of course.”

“You think it prudent, then?” 

There’s something in Francis’s tone—a concern, a need, though perhaps not for James’s reassurance. Still, he obliges. “Yes, of course. I—you know I trust your judgment in all things.”

Francis grunts beneath his breath, but is satisfied enough to close his eyes at least. James lies silent against his chest until Francis’s breaths bottom out, his grip on James slackening as he falls towards sleep.

“Francis?” James says at last, so quiet he can nearly persuade himself he hasn’t spoken at all.

“Hmm?”

“You and Jopson—you’ve known each other for some time, haven’t you? And well?” His cheeks burn the moment he opens his mouth, the mere linking of names too painful and too revealing.

“He went South with me and Ross in ’39. You’ll agree, I think, that such a journey leaves little room for mystery. So yes, I suppose I know him well enough.”

“Four years—and yet he still volunteered to go North. Was that loyalty, do you think?” 

Francis regards him oddly; perhaps his tone was not so light as he had hoped. “Well, some might call it foolishness, but I doubt you’d be so churlish. What’s this about? If you’ve any misgivings regarding this scheme of mine, I’d have you share them. It’s why I sought your opinion of Jopson’s fitness, and—”

“Oh no, I’ve no doubts on that score. I merely wonder at the depth of—of affection that could compel a man to return to Dante’s Ninth Circle.” Miserably, he feels the joke curdling on his tongue, all his camouflage laid bare. He could weep now and it would make no difference. He doesn’t permit himself the luxury.

Francis, meanwhile, has propped himself up on one elbow. “Are you—Christ, you _are_. I wasn’t sure at first. You’re jealous of Jopson.” He begins to laugh.

James flushes once again, shoving at Francis until he topples flat. “I’m not.”

The fall seems to knock the amusement from Francis. His expression is all seriousness as he pulls James close once more. “You are, but that was—inelegant, on my part. I apologize. Jopson, he—there were compelling reasons for him to take this post. I can say no more without breaking confidence, but rest assured they’d little enough to do with devotion to a drunken, balding Irishman. And I—well, I never had children, as you know. I suppose I came to think of him as something proximate.” 

“He’s scarcely younger than I am!”

“Ah, but he carries the years so very well,” Francis retorts, and James bats away the fingers now tugging playfully at his ear. In response, Francis’s touch mellows into something soft and earnest. “Truly, you needn’t worry. Jopson might be twenty, forty, or a hundred and it would make no matter. Not now I’ve known you.”

There’s a tart, metallic taste on James’s tongue—blood. Not, for once, from the gums, but from the sore he’s absently chewed into the inside of his cheek. “It isn’t that I doubt you. I—well, I would say I trust you with my life, only I fear that’s cheap currency now.”

“James—” Francis cuts in, voice cracking, but stops at James’s touch upon his arm.

“No, I must say this—must explain. I wouldn’t have you think less of yourself on my account—wouldn’t have these…fancies reflect poorly on you, even in your own mind. You must know how deeply I esteem you. My words before—they’ve nothing to do with you. Not really. I shouldn’t have spoken at all, perhaps, only…It’s this place, somehow. It—it unstrings something in me, and I can’t—I find myself awash in the most dreadful thoughts, and I can’t refute them. Can’t keep them at bay, no matter how little credence I give them.”

Profound weariness settles over him, once he is delivered of this speech. He longs to lay back into it and sleep, but lets Francis’s hand, resting warm against his cheek, keep him tethered a moment longer. “James, James,” Francis whispers, and presses a line of kisses from the crown of James’s head to his lips, stern and purposeful, as though laying tracks for a return.

“I’ve upset you,” James murmurs tiredly. “I’m sorry. I’m a poor host, to trouble you with private doubts.”

“Shh, none of that.” Francis’s fingers have come to rest at James’s nape now, cradling his head. “You’re nothing of the kind. But what if you were? I’ve faith enough for the both of us—you may rely on that.”

For a moment, at least, James finds he can believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> In Dante's _Inferno_ , the Ninth Circle of Hell is an enormous frozen lake. Ironically, it's also the circle reserved for those guilty of treachery, so definitely _not_ the place you'd expect Jopson to turn up. 
> 
> The "papers" Francis refers to are curling papers, which were one option for curling hair in the days before modern irons, rollers, etc.
> 
> As for the "compelling reasons" he alludes to, I was basically thinking of Jopson's family situation as per Ep. 6 (regardless of whether you think his mother died or just relapsed, I imagine he'd at least feel an obligation to help out his younger brother and therefore be happy to have the extra pay). But like, if any of y'all ship him with Little and want to read it that way, go for it, because I'm generous like that.


End file.
